Fontaine's Good Loser
by rapunzelwithascalpel
Summary: –despite it all, he can't say no. Mutters, then moans 'Mister Fontaine' in a voice he hopes pleases the man.


Jack had lost, but he was a good loser. Fontaine's good loser. He had accepted his defeat with no resistance, as Fontaine had so _nicely_ asked him to.

The man had always been so polite.

 _…would you so kindly accept it and give up?_

He's lying on the ground and can't stand, Fontaine had said no. _Would you kindly stay still on the ground there for me?_

The ground is ice cold, the freeze crawls through his clothes, amplifying every ache and pain. His father's body lays not far from him; but unlike Jack, Andrew Ryan had not been defeated. He died his own death, a death he'd chosen.

A man could choose, after all.

The office is dark, Fontaine's dimmed the lights and illumination provided by the Neon signs emitting from the window is the only source of light. Fontaine's footsteps are the only sound; they circle around Jack slowly, predatorily. It feels familiar but Jack cannot recall why.  
Wait– there's also soft music in the background. Jack only barely make out the melody, the lyrics too obscure for him to understand.

Wet blood on his chin and his right wrist crushed, there's not much to do now except to die and respawn in a Vita-Chamber. He would not die any time soon. He knows this and Fontaine's made it very clear. Why heal up when you could come back brand new with a simple and easy _death_?

"Never mix business with friendships, I says." It's the Bronx accent. Jack doesn't like it. "But now that I give it some thought, kid, with you by my side, I could rise even higher."

"We ain't friends, we's **family**." The footsteps stop. "Andrew Ryan ain't ya daddy, kid. He's just the schmuck who'd gon and knocked up one'a Cohen's little 2 bit whores."

There's a muffled thumping sound; Fontaine had kicked Ryan's body.

"You- You ain't nothin' like Ryan. I knew yous since you were just a little freak in a tube." There's a sick crack sound as Fontaine crushes his left wrist with a foot. Both chains, crushed. Ryan's chain was no more—literally and figuratively.

"And even then, I saw your potential. I brought you here, just to show yous what you were capable of."

Fontaine's on his hands and knees, over Jack.

Atlas's face, Fontaine's voice.

"Don't worry, kid. Them vita-chambers'll fix yer right up after this."

So Fontaine was planning on killing him. Of course.

There's hot breath on Jack's neck, and an intruding hand beneath his shirt; it pokes and prods the unfamiliar territory, the touches reek of entitlement. Fontaine doesn't say anything, the actions speak for themselves.

"Should've done this before you came to kill Andrew Ryan. Shoulda had you tell'em before you killed him. Tell him straight to his face I fucked his son. I fucked you and you loved every second of it."

Anxiety stabs Jack repeatedly, making his face scrunch up. This wasn't what he'd imagined.

"Come on now, kid. You get hammered to pieces by a Big Daddy, no sweat, but you're scared of taking a dick?"

The man was so vulgar, so immoral. So unlike Jack.

Right? They weren't alike in any shape or form…right?

"You're gonna love it. You're gonna love having me inside you. Now, would you kindly beg me to fuck you?"

Jack's eyes widen with revulsion, but his voice complies immediately. No no no. The words that come out are not his own, had never and would never cross his mind. His mouth leaks lies and he can only think— _fuck Fontaine. Fuck Fontaine. Fuck Fontaine._

Jack can't see Fontaine's face but he knows the man isn't satisfied. Fontaine keeps listening anyway as his fingers do strange thing to Jack's body, enter places they're not supposed to be. It hurts, a different hurt than every other hurt he's felt until now. This hurt comes with something else – humiliation? Despair? Jack isn't sure, he's too young to know this stuff. He's too young.

Finally, Fontaine gives him direction.

"Try sayin' that with 'Mister Fontaine'. And gimme a sexy voice. Laying like a dead fish and talking dirty with a monotone ain't my idea of hot, kid."

And he hates it. He does as his told, regardless of how he feels because how he feels is irrelevant. Everything is about Frank Fontaine.

He uses 'Mister Fontaine', and feels how pleased the man is in the movements of his fingers. They become needier and even gentler– something Jack never could have predicted.

When it happens, it happens. It hurts, like it should when it's being done by a man like Frank Fontaine. Nothing comes to mind as Jack stares at the leaky ceiling. Disassociating is a new experience and he indulges fully in it. Imagines places he's never seen, and scenarios he's never been in, and never will be in.

Because he knows Frank Fontaine won't let him go. Not after this.

An instant pass. An eternity passes. And then, Fountaine is finished.

Fontaine pulls Jack up to his knees with a "Would you kindly clean me off?"

Jack obeys. He licks off the blood and cum passively, like the good boy he's meant to be. Like Fontaine's good loser. Fontaine laces his fingers into Jack's hair, rubbing gently and it's far too nice and far too kind for a man like Frank Fontaine.

"Good boy." The man cooes, snapping Jack's neck.

* * *

He steps out the vita-chamber, no longer smelling like Fontaine.

The man is waiting for him.

"Look at ya. All brand new. Ready for round two? Something about virgins really does it for me, boyo…And this time, I want you to look me in the eye when I fuck you the first time."


End file.
